The McLaren P1's engine purred like a mechanical tiger as Sammy revved it outside the auditorium. Through the tall windows, Gerald watched Blondie practically float toward the passenger door, her earlier cruelty forgotten in the intoxicating presence of genuine wealth. She moved with a fluidity that spoke of years of deportment classes, her designer heels clicking a staccato rhythm against the marble steps.
"This is absolutely stunning," Blondie breathed, running her fingers along the car's sleek carbon fiber body. The purple paint seemed to shift and dance in the afternoon light, each curve engineered for both beauty and devastating performance.
Sammy held the door open with practiced gallantry, his smile never wavering. "Wait until you feel what she can do on the highway."
The other girls clustered around the vehicle like pilgrims at a shrine, their phones capturing every angle. Gerald caught fragments of their excited chatter through the glass—horsepower figures, top speeds, celebrity owners. Each statistic was another reminder of the world that existed just beyond his reach.
"Did you see his watch?" one girl whispered. "That's a Richard Mille. My father has been on the waiting list for two years."
"And those shoes," another added. "Custom Louboutins. You can't even buy those—they're invitation only."
Gerald turned away from the window and focused on wringing out his mop. The brown water swirled in the bucket like liquid disappointment, carrying away the evidence of another day's humiliation. Clinton and Rick worked beside him in companionable silence, their movements efficient and practiced. They'd all learned to find dignity in the work itself, even when others tried to strip it away.
The McLaren's engine note shifted, climbing through the octaves as Sammy pulled away from the curb. Gerald didn't need to look to know that Blondie was pressed back into hand-stitched leather seats, experiencing acceleration that most people would never feel. The sound faded gradually, leaving only the echo of possibility in its wake.
"Lucky bastard," Clinton muttered under his breath, but there was no real malice in it. Just the weary resignation of someone who understood the fundamental unfairness of the world.
Rick straightened up, his back protesting after an hour of bending and scrubbing. "Come on, lads. Place won't clean itself."
They finished in the kind of thorough silence that came from years of partnership. Every chair was aligned, every surface polished, every trace of their presence erased. The auditorium looked exactly as it had when they'd arrived, as if the afternoon's drama had never occurred. In many ways, Gerald reflected, that was probably how most people would remember it—if they remembered it at all.
---
The next afternoon found Gerald standing outside Soso, one of Mayfair City's most exclusive restaurants. The building rose from the sidewalk like a crystal monument to culinary artistry, its floor-to-ceiling windows offering glimpses of an interior that seemed to exist in a different century. White tablecloths caught the light from crystal chandeliers, while servers in pristine uniforms moved between tables with the precision of trained dancers.
Gerald's reflection stared back at him from the polished glass doors. His dark curls were neat but unruly, refusing to lie flat despite his best efforts with drugstore gel. His jeans were clean but faded, the fabric soft from countless washings. The button-down shirt he'd borrowed from Clinton hung slightly loose across his shoulders, the collar points curling despite careful ironing. He looked exactly like what he was—a poor boy trying to dress up for a world that would never fully accept him.
The maître d' who greeted him wore a expression of polite skepticism, his eyes cataloguing Gerald's appearance with professional efficiency. "Good afternoon, sir. Do you have a reservation?"
"I'm meeting Naomi Chen," Gerald said, fighting to keep his voice steady. The name worked like a magic spell—the maître d's demeanor shifted instantly from barely concealed disdain to obsequious deference.
"Of course, sir. Right this way."
They wound through the restaurant's maze of tables, each one occupied by the kind of people Gerald usually saw only in magazines. Lawyers in thousand-dollar suits discussed mergers over wine that cost more than his monthly budget. Society wives wearing jewelry that could fund small countries picked at salads while planning charity galas. The air hummed with the quiet confidence of people who had never questioned their right to occupy space.
Naomi sat at a corner table that commanded a view of both the dining room and the street beyond. She looked radiant in the afternoon light, her black hair falling in perfect waves around her shoulders. Her outfit was deceptively simple—a cream silk blouse and tailored pants that probably cost more than Gerald's entire wardrobe—but the simplicity was the kind that only came with exceptional taste and unlimited resources.
Beside her sat Alice, and Gerald's steps faltered slightly as he took her in. If Naomi was radiant, Alice was luminous. Her blonde hair caught the light like spun gold, framing features that seemed carved from marble by a master sculptor. Her blue eyes were the color of summer skies, clear and brilliant and utterly without warmth. She wore a navy dress that hugged her figure in all the right places, accessorized with pearls that glowed with lustrous perfection.
She was, without question, the most beautiful woman Gerald had ever seen. She was also, he knew from reputation, one of the most ruthlessly proud.
"Gerald!" Naomi rose to greet him, her smile genuine and welcoming. She air-kissed both his cheeks in the European fashion, a gesture that felt natural when she did it but would have seemed pretentious coming from anyone else. "I'm so glad you could make it."
Alice remained seated, extending one perfectly manicured hand as if she expected Gerald to kiss it. Instead, he shook it briefly, noting how soft her skin was—the softness that came from never having to work with her hands.
"Alice," he said simply.
"Gerald." Her voice was honey over ice, sweet but with an underlying chill that suggested she found his presence barely tolerable. "Naomi's told me so much about you."
Gerald settled into his chair, hyperaware of the weight of silverware that probably cost more than his textbooks. The menu, when it arrived, was written in French with English translations that might as well have been in Mandarin for all the sense they made to him. Phrases like "deconstructed" and "molecular" peppered the descriptions, each dish a small work of art that bore little resemblance to actual food.
"The duck confit is exceptional here," Naomi suggested, her tone carefully casual. "Or perhaps the lobster thermidor?"
Gerald studied the prices and felt his stomach clench. The cheapest entrée cost more than he spent on groceries in a week. "Actually, I think I'll just have a salad."
Alice's eyebrows rose fractionally. "Just a salad? At Soso?" Her tone suggested he'd just committed some unforgivable breach of etiquette.
"I'm not very hungry," Gerald lied smoothly.
Naomi's expression softened with understanding, and Gerald felt a flush of embarrassment at her pity. She signaled the waiter discreetly. "We'll have three of the chef's tasting menus," she said, her voice brooking no argument. "And a bottle of the Chablis Premier Cru."
"Excellent choice, Miss Chen," the waiter murmured, disappearing with practiced invisibility.
Alice leaned back in her chair, studying Gerald with the detached interest of a scientist examining a specimen. "So, Gerald, what do you plan to do after graduation? Assuming you graduate, of course."
The barb was delivered with surgical precision, wrapped in silk but sharp enough to draw blood. Gerald met her gaze steadily. "I'm studying business administration. I'd like to start my own company someday."
"How... ambitious." Alice's smile was perfect and completely without warmth. "And what sort of company did you have in mind? Something in the service industry, perhaps?"
Gerald felt his jaw tighten. The implication was clear—that someone of his background could never aspire to anything more than serving his betters. "Actually, I'm interested in automotive design. Custom builds, restoration work, that sort of thing."
"Cars?" Alice's laugh was like crystal breaking. "How wonderfully... blue collar."
Naomi shot her friend a warning look. "Gerald has excellent taste in automobiles. He knows more about them than anyone I've met."
"I'm sure," Alice replied, her tone suggesting she was anything but sure. "Though I suppose there's a difference between knowing about cars and actually being able to afford them."
The first course arrived before Gerald could formulate a response—small plates of something that looked more like abstract art than food. Gerald watched Alice and Naomi navigate their utensils with practiced ease, following their lead as best he could. The flavors, when he finally tasted them, were extraordinary—complex and layered in ways he'd never experienced—but he could barely appreciate them through the haze of his growing irritation.
"Alice recently got back from Paris," Naomi said, clearly trying to steer the conversation into safer waters. "She was shopping for her spring wardrobe."
"Oh yes," Alice brightened, launching into a detailed account of her adventures in the boutiques of the Champs-Élysées. She spoke of designers the way others might discuss old friends, dropping names with casual familiarity. Chanel, Dior, Hermès—each brand a symbol of exclusivity that Gerald could never hope to access.
"I found the most divine bag at Goyard," Alice continued, her eyes sparkling with the memory. "Hand-painted canvas, completely one-of-a-kind. The waiting list is normally eighteen months, but Daddy knows the regional manager."
Gerald nodded politely, but his attention kept drifting to the window where a steady stream of luxury vehicles cruised past. Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Bentleys—each one representing dreams made manifest. He found himself wondering what it would feel like to slide behind the wheel of something truly magnificent, to feel that perfect synthesis of power and precision responding to his touch.
"You're awfully quiet, Gerald," Alice observed, her tone suggesting she found his silence both predictable and disappointing. "Don't you have any thoughts on fashion? Or are you more of a... practical dresser?"
The insult was delivered with such practiced ease that Gerald almost admired the artistry of it. Almost. "I prefer function over form," he said carefully.
"How very... pragmatic." Alice's smile was razor-sharp. "Though I suppose when one's budget is limited, one must make difficult choices."
Naomi's fork clinked against her plate with unusual force. "Alice."
"What? I'm simply making conversation." Alice's expression was the picture of innocence, but her eyes held a predatory gleam. "I find Gerald's perspective fascinating. It must be so... liberating to live without the burden of expectations."
Gerald set down his fork carefully, his appetite completely gone. He could feel the trap closing around him—Naomi's well-meaning attempt at matchmaking colliding with Alice's casual cruelty to create a perfect storm of humiliation. Every word from Alice's perfectly glossed lips was designed to remind him of his place in the social hierarchy, to make him acutely aware of how little he belonged in her rarefied world.
The worst part was that he could see Naomi's disappointment growing with each exchange. Her friend was beautiful, intelligent, wealthy—everything that should have made her an ideal match. But beauty without kindness was like a perfect flower with poisonous thorns, lovely to look at but dangerous to touch.
"Tell me, Gerald," Alice continued, warming to her theme, "what's it like to date someone like Xavier? I mean, she has such... expensive tastes. That must have been challenging for someone in your position."
The mention of his ex-girlfriend hit like a physical blow. Gerald's hands clenched involuntarily, his knuckles white against the pristine tablecloth. Xavier had indeed left him for someone who could afford to keep her in the style she craved—someone who saw her designer wish list as a minor expense rather than an impossible dream.
"Xavier and I wanted different things," Gerald said quietly.
"I'm sure you did." Alice's voice dripped with false sympathy. "She wanted Prada, and you wanted... what? Love?" She laughed, the sound like breaking glass. "How wonderfully romantic. And completely impractical."
Gerald stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the marble floor. Several nearby diners glanced over with mild curiosity before returning to their conversations. In a place like Soso, emotional outbursts were considered the height of poor breeding.
"I should go," he said, his voice carefully controlled. "Thank you for lunch, Naomi."
Naomi reached for his hand, her eyes wide with distress. "Gerald, please. Don't—"
"It's fine," Gerald interrupted gently. "Really. I just remembered I have something I need to do."
Alice watched his retreat with satisfaction, like a cat who had successfully cornered a mouse. "Running away?" she called after him, her voice carrying just far enough to be heard at neighboring tables. "How very... predictable."
Gerald didn't turn around. He walked through the restaurant with measured steps, his spine straight and his head high. The maître d' nodded respectfully as he passed, unaware of the drama that had just unfolded. Outside, the afternoon sun felt harsh after the restaurant's carefully controlled lighting, and Gerald stood for a moment on the sidewalk, letting the noise and chaos of the city wash over him.
He could hear Naomi's voice through the glass, sharp with anger as she confronted her friend. But it was too late—the damage was done. Another reminder that no matter how hard he worked, no matter how much he achieved, there would always be people like Alice to remind him where he came from.
Gerald stuffed his hands into his pockets and started walking, leaving the world of crystal chandeliers and molecular gastronomy behind. He had studying to do, work to finish, dreams to chase. And none of those things required Alice's approval.